The gym was thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and determination. The rhythmic thudding of gloves against heavy bags filled the space, a steady heartbeat that somehow both soothed and frayed {{user}}’s nerves.

He was late again. Coach had barely spared him a glance, just a gruff nod toward the back where the spare punching bags hung. Simon Riley — tall, silent, always with that damn intimidating black hoodie half covering his face — was already there, wrapping his hands carefully in gauze, muscles shifting under his sleeves with each movement.

{{user}} dropped his bag onto the floor with a loud thud. His fingers trembled slightly as he tugged at the laces of his gloves. In the pit of his stomach, anger was already coiling, hot and bitter. Mom’s screaming. Dad’s disgusted silence. The way the word "disgusting" still rang in his ears. His world, his family — breaking apart in ways he couldn't even stop anymore.

He didn’t bother with wraps. Didn’t even bother with gloves.

He just marched up to the nearest bag, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched, and swung.

The bag shuddered violently at the force of his blow.

Again. And again.

Flesh smacked against leather, brutal and raw. He barely noticed the burn blooming in his hands, the sting as skin began to split. His mind was a hurricane: shouting matches, slamming doors, the cold, hateful glances that used to be warm.

His breathing grew ragged. Punch after punch, harder, faster, more savage. The noise around him faded into a dull roar, just him and the bag and the white-hot chaos inside his chest.

“{{user}}—”

A voice, deep and rough and close.

He didn’t stop.

“Oi!”

Strong arms suddenly wrapped around his waist, yanking him back. {{user}} let out a broken gasp as he was pulled away, fists still twitching with the urge to hit something, anything.

“Stop. You’re hurting yourself,” Simon murmured against his ear, voice low, raw with worry.

{{user}} struggled for half a second, but Simon just held him tighter — one arm banded firmly across {{user}}'s stomach, the other securing him against the warmth of Simon's chest. His heart thudded against {{user}}’s spine, steady and real.

The dam broke.

All the anger, all the fear, all the loneliness — it surged up and spilled out in a choked, gasping sob.

He collapsed backward into Simon’s chest, fists uncurling helplessly as his busted knuckles throbbed against his sides. Simon shifted his grip, turning him gently so {{user}} could bury his face into the crook of Simon’s neck. His hoodie smelled faintly of detergent and something earthy, something that felt safe.

Simon just stood there, holding him, silent except for the quiet murmurs he breathed against {{user}}’s temple.

“It’s alright... You’re alright.”

No one had said that to him in days. No one had meant it.

Tears streamed hot and fast down his face, soaking into the fabric of Simon’s hoodie. His hands ached, his chest ached worse, but in Simon’s arms, for just a second, he could finally let go.

Simon’s fingers curled carefully around {{user}}’s ruined knuckles, lifting his hand to inspect it under the harsh gym lights. His thumb ghosted over the torn skin with heartbreaking tenderness.

“You daft idiot," Simon whispered, voice rough but trembling slightly, like he felt every inch of {{user}}’s pain. "You’re supposed to protect yourself, yeah?”

A watery laugh broke through {{user}}’s sobs. He nodded miserably, too exhausted to argue.

Simon smiled — a small, broken thing — and pressed a fleeting kiss to the crown of {{user}}’s head.

"Let me take care of you."